


The Release

by RaggedyHuntingDetective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaggedyHuntingDetective/pseuds/RaggedyHuntingDetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shooting a gun causes the same chemical reactions in the brain as a passionate kiss"<br/>Sherlock is about to find out that the diminishing adrenaline levels accompanying his wall shooting tirades is not the end of the world; but rather the beginning of a new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Release (Part 1)

The swift rush of air on his face, the practiced grip needed to keep the hand steady, the experience needed to hold focus as you let go of the last breath and the trigger is pulled.  
BANG  
The world always seemed to go a bit faster after that, closer to his preferred level of functioning, for everyday life always moved so slowly, as if it was all played in slow motion. That is why he needed the release; the slight burn of gunpowder on his hand, the ringing in his ears after the tiny silver projectile hurtled from it’s home into the wild open world.  
BANG  
Sherlock breathed in, his heart rate rising slightly; the effect of the thrill not quite what it used to be, he was becoming immune.  
Though Mrs. Hudson wasn’t. “Sherlock! Not my wall again, you’ll shoot right through it soon enough.”  
“The calibre of these bullets in this handgun, pointed directly at a double brick wall, would need at least three hits in precisely the same position to have a chance of going...”  
“Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson sighed, the technical ‘jibber-jabber’ passing in one ear and out the other, once again reminding Sherlock of his complete loneliness. Though he would never admit the desire for even the simplest companionship, he knew it was impossible; the only person who could ever even slightly keep up with him conversationally was his brother, Mycroft, though that was out of the question. The London homicide rate would double within the hour if they were left in a room together.  
What Sherlock needed was to be reminded of his humanity, in a way that would keep his ever changing mind busy, whilst calming the exterior to a level of social acceptability. What he needed was a friend, though as the great man often said, I don’t have friends!

There hadn’t been an ‘interesting’ murder in the wider London area in the past week and Sherlock was feeling the withdrawal as if he were a man on the fortieth day of this hunger strike. The world had begun to blur and when a man such as Sherlock is left without purpose, the world would soon see his wrath.  
To cater for the lack of excitement, exercising his mind was the only option, so St. Bartholomew's Hospital was the destination; perhaps the discovery of a more effective explosive would brighten up the world.  
“Morning, Sherlock.” Molly stuttered over her words, her feelings for the seemingly apathetic man were not shared by him, simply due to his unfamiliarity with the human psyche, let alone a female one. She knew that, and had known for almost as long as they had known one another; he liked Molly, as much as a man such as he could ‘like’ anyone, but he felt an almost fraternal protectiveness of her, another double brick wall he had hid behind, attempting to simplify a world of complications in favour of understanding the scientific one.  
“Molly.” He responded, not looking up from the microscope in front of him. His long delicate, yet masculine hands never moving unwillingly; his release of mind creating a welcome release for the body. The finely tuned nerves in his lithe fingers able to change the settings the minutest of degrees. He only looked up when he heard the lab door close.  
Many believed that Sherlock was without feeling, but it was not that simple, life rarely was. More accurately, he felt, yet his inability to speak about issues relating to the non-structural mind made him choose to cover up any feelings, for that was easier than attempting to explain them. Sherlock hadn’t cried since he was a child, and even then it was only in extreme pain or an attempt to get Mycroft in trouble, none of the few people he saw regularly had ever seen the slightest glimpse of emotion, his keen skills of deduction also extending to how those around him perceived the great man.  
No one really knew Sherlock, no one ever had; if you were to ask his family, they may tell you stories of his past, yet if you asked how it made him feel, there would follow an unavoidably awkward silence, for not his family nor his ‘colleagues’ at Scotland Yard had ever been enlightened to that depth of his being; his heart.

On a crisp autumn morning, without waking Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock donned his flowing coat and worn blue scarf and headed for the ballistics wing of Scotland Yard, again exercising his mastery by producing the stolen identification of DI Lestrade when asked if he had clearance. The building was quiet, even more so than a typical Friday, though that simply helped to heighten Sherlock’s excitement, the fewer people around him, the more comfortable he felt. Taking a range of firearms from the lab, Sherlock lined them up in front of him; allowing his body to keenly anticipate the coming rush of adrenaline.  
Holding up the first handgun, a Steyr GB, he drew in a final breath before releasing the air within his lungs, along with the tension of his trigger finger, feeling the buzz as he attempted to keep his gun-arm steady, a fresh intake of breath followed the sighting of where the bullet had hit; no need for a second shot, the bullet hitting the cutout directly in its papery heart.  
He followed that with almost identical hits with the SIG-Sauer P290, Beretta PX4 and Colt SSP. The buzz of auditory whiplash in his ears, Sherlock put the guns and spelt casings away and silently headed out, thinking he would stop briefly at St. Bart’s to check on some research. What he didn’t expect is the change that would result from this action.


	2. The Release (Part 2)

St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London, a fine institute that encompassed medical training, experimentation, autopsy, and surgery. What Sherlock was there for was of the scientific sort. Although the functions of the human body fascinated him, the more finite chemicals that effect the body was more to his liking. The inhuman like ease with which he made discoveries was marked down to his immense knowledge of the most tiny elements of our world, and what that, along with another of a different sort, would create for both our world and our mostly unused minds.  
Sherlock could sit like this for days, barely noticing the workspace getting smaller, the slow invasion of coffee mugs Molly had brought for him, now empty. He had no idea how long he had been in the lab for, but he could tell from the mugs it had been at least seven hours. But for all that familiarity, one thing was new; a voice.

“Bit different from my day.” The words of an experienced man were intermittently interrupted by the tap of a walking stick on the brushed concrete floor.  
Sherlock looked up, recognising only one of the two men who stood before him, yet that made for a welcome workout for his mind.  
The first man, short, moderately overweight, yet possessing an above average level intelligence, was longtime associate, Mike Stamford. Medical man, and one who didn’t feel the need to fill comfortable silence with meaningless jabber; the main reason for Sherlock’s continued association with him.  
The second man was unknown to him; short, physically fit, dressed comfortably yet with an obvious awareness of his appearance, whether conscious or otherwise. Tan-line suggesting time in the middle-east, though on work rather than holiday. The manner with which he held himself suggested a military background, along with his deep blue eyes, full of memories. Though his posture said military, his obvious lean made it clear he relied on his walking stick, though his thoughts seemed elsewhere, suggesting the doubt in his mind along with his therapist’s suspicions were correct; the limp was almost certainly psychosomatic. The fact of what this man clearly knew suggested he was recently back from military service, and his comment on his past with the hospital and his association with Stamford suggested he was a doctor or somehow medically trained.  
Sherlock knew why he was here.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked quietly, turning his gaze back to the microscope.  
The new man turned his head, his body already in line with Sherlock. “I’m sorry?”  
“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock’s internal smile threatening to escape as the incomprehension spread across the new man’s face.  
“Afghanistan, but...”  
“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” Sherlock interrupted, preferring to bamboozle the man more.  
“Can’t you use the landline?” Mike responded, his pleasure at knowing more that someone else in a room with Sherlock around was noticeable.  
“I prefer to text.”  
Mike moved his hand in the vicinity of his pocket without really checking what was within. “Must’ve left it in the car.”  
A short silence was breached by the military man offering his.  
“Thank you.” Unknown to the man, Sherlock was not only sending a text, but was further deducing his life.  
After the message was sent, Sherlock decided to go for the full show, expressing his talents in a way none would forget. “So, John, how do you feel about the violin?”  
“I’m sorry, what?” The new man replied, his phone easily telling Sherlock his name was John Watson. The phone also told him that he has a sibling, a brother, only close relation left yet they don’t often speak, either due to something about the brother’s wife or drinking habits.  
“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, would that bother you?” John’s expression was unchanged, so he continued. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” Finished off with a wily smile, the show was done; but the encore was how you sell it all to the audience.  
John looked over at Mike who was casually investigating a chemical sample, his smile hadn’t faded. “You told him about me?”  
“Not a word.”  
“Then who said anything about flatmates?”  
“I did.” Sherlock started, “I told Mike this before I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan, not a difficult leap.”  
“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asked almost shyly.  
“There’s a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, 7 o’clock. Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”  
“Is that it?” Ahh, the inevitable question. You know everything about me, I don’t know anything about you...  
“Is that what?”  
“We’ve only just met and we’re going to go look at a flat?”  
Sherlock paused. “Problem?” John smiled, aha!  
“We don’t know a thing about each other...” Yes, there it was. Sherlock tuned out, reciting his deductions in his head before retelling them to his future flatmate, all the while, heading towards the door.  
John just stood in stunned silence, a flash of something unfamiliar to Sherlock on his face, not anger, but awe.  
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes, the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon.”


	3. The Release (Part 3)

For the rest of that day and most of the next, Sherlock simply sat. Despite being without a case, his mind was racing as fast as if he did. He had done something never even contemplated by him before. In a way he wasn’t living alone, Mrs. Hudson was there, but it wasn’t the same; Sherlock had just invited someone to live with him. Sharing almost everything but sleeping quarters. This meant saying goodbye to the constant access to his ‘mind palace’, the mental world in which he’d escape to gather anything and everything about a desired topic. Instead he would have brought a child into that palace, bothering him with what they want or asking the inevitable stupid questions.   
So why did he do it? Even he didn’t know that; not yet.

“Mr. Holmes.” John spoke as they met in front of the black door marked ‘221B’, shaking hands.  
“Please, call me Sherlock.” They exchanged a smile, though it felt different to Sherlock than the forced expression changes he felt he must make with others.  
“This is a lovely spot, it must cost a fortune.”  
“No, not at all. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady owes me a favour. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.” Sherlock said serenely.  
John’s expression changed. “You stopped her husband being executed?”  
Sherlock smiled before replying, he did rather enjoy retelling this story. “Oh no, I ensured it.”  
John had little time to compose himself before the woman they’d been discussing opened the door.  
“Ah, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said cheerfully before kissing her lightly on the cheek. “This is Dr. John Watson.”  
“Very pleased to meet you, do come in.” She announced, ushering the two men through the door.  
The ground level consisted of a small entryway which looked onto a flight of worn timber stairs. The walls detailed with textured, yet aged rendering of a mottled green colour. To the right of the stairs stood the doors to both Mrs. Hudson’s abode, 221A, and the longtime unoccupied basement dwelling, 221C. Mrs. Hudson had been trying to lease 221C for years, yet none would take it, she suspected it was due to a combination between the proclivity for damp to infest the lower level, along with the simple fact that it was unlikely to be in anyone’s best interests to live in a basement.  
“So, you’re a doctor are you John? May I call you John?” Mrs. Hudson asked.  
“Yes, John is fine, and yes, I’m a military doctor actually.”  
“Really? My, you must’ve seen rather a lot for your years then.”   
John glanced at his feet, his face becoming solemn. “Yes, my fair share.”  
As the three arrived at the door to 221B, Sherlock took the reigns and presented a key, which he proceeded to fit expertly into the lock, opening the door to the currently unshared living area.  
Sherlock glanced at John to read his reaction. John’s eyes widened ever so slightly, unconsciously taking a step into the room. A smile started to return to his face. “This could be very nice, very nice.” His eyes telling Sherlock that the “could” he mentioned referred to the current clutter of papers, clippings and experiment equipment currently covering all horizontal surfaces.  
Seeing this, Sherlock, almost unconsciously began to tidy a few things, pinning them in place with whatever was to hand. “I... I will have this stuff tidied away.” He said weakly, almost ashamed.  
“Oh,” John said quietly, realising that Sherlock was already well and truly moved in. “But it’s lovely, plenty of room, nice... nice.” Trying to retract the unintentional insult.  
Sherlock felt his heart rate increasing as he looked into John’s eyes, there was something about him, something new.  
“Shall I make you boys a cup of tea while you take the full tour?”  
“That’d be lovely.” They said almost in unison.  
Mrs. Hudson was tentative beginning the next question. “And I’ll make sure the second bedroom is completely ready, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms?”  
John stammered. “Of course we’ll be needing two.”  
Sherlock was still deducing John, tuned out to Mrs. Hudson’s mutterings. “Oh, don’t worry, there’s all sorts ‘round here. Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones.”  
John turned back to face Sherlock. “So, um...” He was cut off by the sound of sirens approaching.  
Sherlock smiled and chuckled quickly and quietly before saying. “A case.”  
“A case?” John questioned. “What do you mean? Are you some sort of police officer?”  
Sherlock was turning this way and that, collecting his coat and scarf and visibly almost leaping out of his skin with excitement; a very confusing message being received by the new flatmate.  
By this time the sirens were right outside, Sherlock staring out the window as John watched the reflection of flashing reds-and-blues in the window.   
“I’m sorry but I’m not quite sure what’s going on.”  
“Here’s your tea, I wasn’t sure how you took it Dr. Watson so I left the milk and sugar on the tray... Oh.” Realising what was going on, Mrs. Hudson’s expression changed. “They could call, now really isn’t a good time, you should tell them that, Sherlock.”  
There was a knock at the door. Sherlock glided out of the room and down the stairs, leaving a confused Watson alone with his tea.

John poured the milk into his tea and stirred it slightly with the spoon before taking a sip, pleased that this British custom had never been abolished. It was one thing that could calm and compose even in the most bizarre of times. John had done multiple tours of the middle-east, seen death and destruction abound; yet this was a new situation he found himself in. From their first meeting, John knew this Sherlock Holmes was not your typical Londoner; his obvious love of the scientific and strange ability to find out the most personal details from a brief glance suggested he wouldn’t be typical company. But never had he anticipated what happened next.

John heard footsteps on the stairs and glanced around to see who it was. There stood Mr. Holmes, a wry smile on his lips.   
“So,” he said. “Are you coming, Doctor Watson?”


End file.
